


Any Combination

by skerb



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dreamtale (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Inktale (Undertale), Confessions, Dreamtale Sans | Dream (Undertale), Inktale Sans (Undertale), Inktale Sans/Dreamtale Sans | Dream (Undertale), Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Memory Related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24731068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skerb/pseuds/skerb
Summary: Ink wants to have feelings. He wants to see the stars instead of the spaces in between. So when Dream comes to visit him, he chases three vials and gathers his courage to put words to thoughts.Even though Dream's already heard it all before.
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale), drink - Relationship
Comments: 14
Kudos: 99





	Any Combination

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MoistBoy420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoistBoy420/gifts).



_He looks happy._

A void expression is what Ink feels, something he can’t name. He has no reference for it, only going on a basis for what others look like when the emotions are plucked from the air, fresh like lilies. He doesn’t know them, but he _wants_ that, craves it like something so deep and so powerful that it rocks Ink right to his empty core.

That shining light. That passive expressiveness that only amplifies the longer Ink is around him… He wants to understand that beyond mortal mockery.

Dream is an enigma that beckons Ink’s interest. Dream’s happy where Ink is normally cordial, a learned function so alien to Ink that he can’t quite kick the habit of exaggerated gestures and widely flashing teeth. It’s an easy enough mimicry, like a parrot babbling words it’s overheard during its lifetime, but the sensation behind what Ink brings up is hollow and empty.

Just like him.

He blots out that thought like a smear of paint on a clean window, trying to hold onto the idea of bright yellows and pastels. He thinks of the sun, of many suns, shining outward from one single incandescence.

Just like… _him._

Ink doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen him. There’s a pit in his chest where something once was, an empty chamber where no one’s there to play the keys on an unknown instrument. He thinks about sunlight, the sharp scent of citrus, lilies and dandelions in summer. He breathes in, his body holding it without him noticing it.

It’s like the world flinches for a moment. All of them do. The area around him is stark white, a secluded area littered with blank pages and smears of paint. There are puddles that splash throughout, echoes from his creation, from when he scrambled to find the vials and fill them with the things he needs.

Automatically, his breath shudders out. Ink rests his hand on his favoured colour, sweet and sublime, resting heavy on his belt. It’s warm, and the simple thought of flinging himself out into another universe seems appealing. Creeping paranoia and the jitters in his brain tell him that he’s been alone for far too long.

Dream doesn’t visit him here too often. At least… he doesn’t remember if he does. It’s been awhile, the memory scratched away like a foil. And all the while, Ink can’t help but think he’s not as full as he used to be.

_(Empty.)_

…Not like before, though it’s different. He doesn’t feel without the rush of colour in his mouth, the clashing of fevers in his skull when it knocks all around in his bones.

He grins to himself. It’s stiff. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for. He knows that eventually someone will come for him, though it’s getting more and more difficult to resist the urge to flee. There’s a knot growing in the pit of his chest, the ceaseless void inside of him that clashes with the anti-world around him.

So he just sits amongst his papers. His precious worlds, guarding them like so many eggs of promise. He knows he _sees_ the happiness inside, but without the yellow vial, he can’t really experience it. It’s an empty longing that makes Ink’s breath stutter out, not wanting to be alone. Not wanting to be _nothing._

Why it’s difficult to bring that colour to his mouth, Ink doesn’t know. His fingers tremble and threaten to drop it, to shatter it into nothingness. He grasps it tightly in his fist, thumb braced on the stopper. He coloured it, envisioning Dream’s face and beaming smile for as long as he can remember.

Something inside of his bones aches.

His eye lights gradually lose what remaining colour they have, the shapes round out and soften, then turn to hard, expressionless pits.

He craves something.

Anything.

Anything to not _be._

Ink thinks that he hears footsteps, the small rustle of paper in the distance. He knows he has a visitor, their cosmic beat so familiar to him. Everyone has a tempo, but it’s Dream’s that Ink is so attuned to, partners in protecting and standing vigil over those who’d give them positivity and purpose.

So when Dream approaches, all light and beaming excitement, it almost _wounds_ Ink to see a flash of uncertainty in Dream’s eyes. He recovers quickly, as always, but that brief stab of concern does strange things to Ink.

He struggles with the approaching emptiness, the minutes stretched between them like black holes fighting to consume stars whole. Dream hesitates, on the cusp of giving his regular cheery greeting and swooping down to ask Ink if he’s alright.

Ink pops the top off the yellow vial and takes a swig like a man facing his last day at war. It sparks off inside of him like pop rocks, coursing and warming his bones. When Dream’s nearby, it’s amplified by hundreds of degrees, a thrush of warmth and comfort, of positivity that’ll last him _centuries_ should he chase it.

Dream stares at him in surprise. Really, after knowing him for so long, what about this sudden behaviour suddenly catches him off guard?

It’s not the first vial that catches Dream by surprise, but the second. Ink’s been dabbling, mixing paints without hesitation until it’s time to implement. His eyes follow Ink’s stained fingers, which release the next in the row - a chartreuse green.

“Ink?”

A peek of a star, both lazy and bright swims into focus, morphing Ink’s left eye light. His grin’s a little easier, like having Dream there with him as he chases emotions will help everything go down like bad-tasting medicine with sugar. Green tends to be sour, a sharp abruptness that hits the back of his mouth to threaten the pitch when he gets too agitated.

The green mingles with the sunny yellow, morphing the euphoria. Ink’s cheeks feel warm, the sensation blossoming throughout his body like a warm tidal pull. He hums, and it’s nice. It _feels…_

Dream’s hand rests on his shoulder, a sturdy weight. Ink closes his eyes to savour the sensation, the mental equivalent of running through meadows, of catching a big fish when he’s hungry, the sharp relief when he finds more paints to fill his vials. The glow that swarms his breaths when he discovers a newborn universe, bursting with hope and kindness and-

_Dream._

Dream’s here, his smile unsure and his brow quirked in askance when Ink reopens his eyes to peek at him. He gives Ink a little nudge, and it’s like butterflies have taken up a home where Ink’s soul used to be. Green and yellow. Yellow and green. Nothing too farfetched, but not too similar either. The sensation flows through him, a small niggling whisper that Dream is the one responsible for these feelings, and not just because the combination makes Ink want to wrap his arms around his longtime friend.

 _Green_ makes him wondrous, makes him curious for things that might happen, just what if. The next vial in the row is a deep rose, out of flow with the natural rainbow order. He still hasn’t given Dream an answer, but he has a feeling (heh) that he doesn’t have to.

Rose makes a flood of heat touch his face. Ink’s never quite sure how to explain this one - especially now that he’s taken to mixing results. The yellow is generally what he sees ‘happy’ as, green for curiosity, but rose… and not just pink, but a burnished gold rose… makes him feel something deeper. Something different, like Ink has all the time outside of the universes to figure it out and yet still can’t put a finger on it.

Abstract paintings fold and twist in his head with Dream’s image, mingling with the spilled colours and feelings. He feels like he has to say something, the twist in his chest uncommon and strange. It’s not painful. It’s just…

A different combination. Perhaps Dream isn’t so worried that he doesn’t stop him, but Ink knows it must be strange. There’s regret in every one of those tubes on some level, shame twisting and nagging that he needs to rely on them. For a moment, he forgets that Dream doesn’t see that as odd. He forgets that what he’s feeling is deep longing, for something missing in most of his life before it had even started.

Impulse rushes in at the same time. Dream’s so close that Ink can almost taste the sweetness of his bones, for no other reason than to experiment. A rush of honey suddenly creeps up Dream’s throat when Ink leans into his personal space, not knowing it as such. His arm remains on Ink’s shoulder, but it’s tighter now. Bracing.

There’s a meaning to this sensation, Ink thinks. He’s seen it, questioned it, with people coupling when the suns are down, in hidden moments. He swallows, the central part to his life uninteresting yet strange. He’s got all kinds of needs, but no words to push at them.

Lilies. Honey. Sunlight. Strength. Quickness. _Creation._

It’s not what he needs, Ink realises. It’s strange to figure it out, like it’s been pestering him for aeons, trapped in an infinitesimal space like the bare startings of a sketch.

He _wants._

He craves, and Dream amplifies that over ten and beyond. Ink’s not quite sure what to do with himself, fists clenched tight as his eye lights fight for which shade to drop into, which colours and how frequently. His breathing is a little funny, like suddenly he can’t get enough air. Like the air he craves needs to be full of Dream.

So Ink looks at him. He’s not sure what he looks like, but Dream is vaguely astonished. His expression softens when Ink seems to snap out of it, though the dense, pleasant warmth in Ink’s rib cage is as present as it’s going to get.

Ink thinks of couplings again, a rosy blush that spreads out like light refracting off a prism. It feels stupid, it feels unnecessary to be like this. Dream’s his friend, but emotions don’t lie. They can’t be deceitful, can’t twist him to do what he wants. He doesn’t _have_ a soul. This is all Ink has.

The wants turn into something else. Dream murmurs something to him, along the lines of, “Take your time,” along with that sweet smile. Its positivity is endless, basking Ink in his warmth like kittens in a sunbeam. He blinks and grasps at the belt of vials, searching the area in front of him with flickering eye lights. He plants the soles of his feet together, then curls a leg underneath him.

He fidgets.

It’s not like him to be shy or demure. If anything Dream has only seen him as chaotic energy, but a wellspring of affection hits him like a brick upside the head. He knows the deal by now, but it doesn’t make it any less sweet. Dream’s learned a patience that extends beyond his years and his soul holds fondness for Ink, radiating from him like a sun. He knows it affects Ink’s decision that, once more, he has to confess his feelings.

No matter how many times that Ink’s forgotten, Dream is floored and rendered speechless by his sincerity. He can’t even focus on the words this time, but Ink’s flush is the most gorgeous that Dream has ever seen. It’s like the dewy mist of a waterfall; when the sun catches it just right, he can see all the beauty in every universe. There’s still a whisper of it now in the sphere.

So before Ink can finish carefully mumbling out how much he treasures Dream’s companionship, Dream both leans forward and pulls Ink close to seek out his mouth with his own. The rapt shiver that’s jostled from Ink’s body and his startled huff into Dream’s mouth is reward enough. No matter how many times Ink forgets, Dream will continue to savour just how sweet and affectionate the gesture is.

Despite Ink’s horrible memory, he still manages to go soft and slow, twining their tongues together in a gentle, amorous curl. Ink’s hand touches his face, a soft caress that’s too tender, and it sends heat down to the base of Dream’s spine.

He can feel Ink’s body relax by bare degrees, his stained fingertips digging into his hips where they dropped. He pushes a little more, voicing his appreciation to chase this blissful high.

With Ink, every first time is a treat; and Dream can never tell Ink no. Not when Ink’s drunk on positivity, emotions and _want_ for him.

**Author's Note:**

> bday fic for Cody!!!!!!!!! ILU CODY MWUAH MWUAH thank you for making me like drink u3u ♥♥♥


End file.
